Page 11 of Her Noble Groom
Chapter eight
T he next day, before the other spinsters arrived, Thomasse presented at Colette’s cottage. The woman nodded her approval as Thomasse retrieved her spindle and distaff. Colette used the time to demonstrate how to properly hold the distaff and let the spindle drop and spin.
When the day was finished, Thomasse was disappointed it was not James who accompanied her on the walk home, but rather a peasant boy. She arrived home to an empty cottage, her father having gone to St. Helier to buy twine for the fishing net; he would not return until the morrow.
Eating supper and going to bed alone was a new experience.
Maybe she was not as tired, or maybe it was the solitude, but for the first time since their arrival, she was aware of the activity of the night beyond the cottage walls—not just the crash of the waves, but also the boisterous voices of French soldiers as they patrolled the shores, and the smell of roasting meat.
The latter two made her uneasy, but eventually sleep came.
When her father returned late the next day, he brought no good tidings, only the twine.
He had inquired of a French soldier in St. Helier about the arrival of the English royal family, only to be told there was no expectation of their coming.
And thus, at present, there was no foreseeable end to their stay on Jersey.
With each passing day, her spinning improved.
Her efforts regained her a modicum of respect, and with it a confidence that had not existed before.
And the day Colette placed a few coins in her hand in payment for her work, Thomasse felt a deep sense of pride.
In the market, she shopped for vegetables and bread, and treated herself to a small vial of jasmine oil.
Rubbing it on her wrists made her feel as if something of her former self still remained.
T hree days after Pentecost, a knock sounded on the cottage door. Thomasse had just dished out stew for herself and her father. He gave her a questioning look.
She shrugged. “I am not expecting visitors.”
Pushing back his chair, her father stepped over and unbarred the door, opening it a crack.
“Might I come in?” a male voice said.
Her father’s back stiffened, but he opened the door and admitted the man.
She recognized him as Seigneur de Carteret of St. Ouen’s Manor.
A look of terror flickered across her father’s face before he schooled his countenance.
He had dreaded this day would come—always fearful of being discovered and sent back to England in chains.
“My apologies for intruding upon your supper, but I want to speak with all those living on my manor personally,” de Carteret said.
Her father pulled out a chair. “Pray, be seated.”
The three of them gathered around the table. Thomasse and her father waited silently for the seigneur to say his piece.
“There are reports among the villeins,” de Carteret began, “that the French garrison has become emboldened, extorting tribute from merchants and beating those who cannot pay. Menfolk in other parishes have been kidnapped and held for ransom in the dungeon at Mont Orgueil.”
He paused, glancing briefly at each of them, before he continued. “Some soldiers have forced fathers to watch as they foully use their daughters.”
Thomasse’s body shook, even as her mind struggled to comprehend how one human could be so cruel to another.
Her father gasped. “Can anything be done to curb them?”
The seigneur shook his head. “I have spoken with the captain of the garrison, but he sets no store by our protestations. Alas, as an occupied isle, we are at their mercy. The best I can do is advise our citizens to keep their heads down and avoid the soldiers. ”
“I appreciate the warning,” her father replied.
“As foreigners, it would be better for you and your daughter to return home.”
Her father looked away. “Regrettably, that is not possible.”
The seigneur raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. If money is the obstacle, I have no problem providing funds for passage back to England.” His eyes searched her father’s face. “Surely nothing is more important than the safety of your child.”
His gaze lingered on her father, who squirmed in his chair.
“We are content living here, are we not, Thomasse?” His eyes widened, and he kicked her beneath the table.
Thomasse forced a smile. “We would be happy to remain here forever.”
Her father inclined his head. “I hope you will allow us to stay in this cottage.”
The seigneur rose and strode to the door. “As the cottage was abandoned, you may stay—so long as you cause no trouble.”
Her father scrambled up from his chair and bowed. “No trouble. No trouble whatsoever. We are grateful for your goodwill toward us.”
The seigneur quit the cottage, and they watched as he walked up the hillock toward the manor house. When he was out of sight, her father slumped into the chair.
“I think we are safe. Word of what I did must not have reached him. Or, by some good fortune, he does not recall meeting me in London.”
“But Father, did you not say these soldiers are under the command of Queen Margaret’s cousin? If so, can you not appeal to the captain of the garrison? Such brutality is intolerable.”
“I am but one man, unknown to them. Like everyone else, we must avoid attracting their attention.”
W alking home from the village, James and Thomasse passed fields of freshly cut rye. The summer harvest always caused her thoughts to linger on her mother and brother, now three years gone.
She had often poured out her sorrow to Agnes, but knew nothing of how her father had dealt with the grief of losing his wife and son—other than becoming distant from his only living child.
How tragic that we have never spoken of our mutual loss .
Even if she broached the subject, she feared he would shut her out, unwilling to expose any hint of weakness before his daughter.
“James,” Thomasse said, timidly, “tell me about your wife.”
James gazed into the distance. “Becca was my first love—the love of my life. We were best friends even in childhood.” His voice was strained, cracking as he spoke.
“She died giving birth to our first child.” He paused as he composed himself.
“Two Michaelsmas have passed since. I have learned to accept it.”
“I give you my compassion. You are still young. I hope one day you will find someone new to love.”
“A love like ours is rare. One cannot expect to be so lucky a second time.” James sighed. “’Twould be unfair to a new wife if she could never measure up. I am content to remain a widower.”
She pondered his words. “Why do you never meet me at Colette’s cottage?”
“For your sake, and mine.”
“My sake?”
“People talk. I would not wish false rumors to spread that we have formed an attachment.” There was a twinge of sadness at his words.
“Why must people make more of something than it rightly is?”
“I suppose it gives them something to gossip about.” James grinned, his amber eyes twinkled. “However, I value our friendship.”
“Indeed, I am grateful to have someone with whom I can speak freely.” Thomasse stooped and gathered a few yellow wildflowers growing alongside the path and buried her nose in the blooms.
“Our conversations always lift my spirits,” James said.
Thomasse slipped a hand through his arm. “After everything you have done for me and my father, I am grateful I can do something for you.”
They continued the walk toward St. Ouen’s Manor in silence, Thomasse saddened that such a kind man had determined to close himself off from love.
J ames strode toward the manor house, marveling at the change he had witnessed in Thomasse. When they first met, she had cared only for her clothes and returning to her privileged life in England.
She had gone from an entitled maiden to more than just a responsible woman—she had become sensitive to the feelings of others.
Pushing open the door, he entered the great hall, a cavernous room built of brown stone. A fire blazed on the hearth, and the room teemed with people. French soldiers and men-at-arms talked loudly as they supped.
Tonight, he could not face the noise and boisterous laughter. Filling a trencher, he returned to the stable to eat.
He settled onto a pile of hay, content with the company of the horses that snorted and nickered in their stalls. A hint of jasmine lingered in the fabric of his tunic. He tried to imagine Becca beside him. Instead, he saw Thomasse’s sparkling blue eyes and brilliant smile.